


Finding Faith

by Blackforestfire



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, M/M, Magic, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Superstition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 21:58:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9923858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackforestfire/pseuds/Blackforestfire
Summary: Jake English is a shepherd living a solitary life atop his mountain. He lives a humble lifestyle and has few things to worry about other than his bones creak a little more than they used to. When his sheep, his only livelihood, start disappearing, Jake makes an offer to a god out of desperation. After that, his simple life gets a lot more complicated.





	

You’ve never been a religious man, preferring to take your own fate into your calloused, worn hands. That being said, there were a lot of dangers about being a shepherd living miles from your nearest neighbor, and even farther from the closest village. You made your own home on top of a mountain, and your visits with society became less and less frequent until people whispered when you did emerge.

_“That’s Jake English, I heard he lives alone up on that mountain.”_

_“Never married, what I heard. All alone.”_

_“Somebody told me he made a pact with the wolves to give them his finest lamb every full-moon to keep them from killing his flock.”_

_“I heard he is a wolf.”_

You were never good with people, so on your last visit you had ridden down on your trusty old mare, bought everything you would need to start a vegetable garden, and left with the intention to never return.

You have never been a religious man, but when the fog rolls in and the forest grows quiet, you find yourself watching the shadows with a tad more care.

Your flock is large, and you lead them over to the mountain’s eastern side, where the grass meadows are dewy and lush every morning. By high-noon you begin to move them to the west side, where your home is, whistling pleasantly as you go.

It’s just you and your animals, and it’s just you when you need to find what’s been killing your sheep.

You find one torn open one morning, raw and red in the hazy morning light. Her skin is still warm, and flies have only just begun to settle. You follow the trail of blood, knife clutched tightly in your fist.

You follow the trail carefully, but you lose it near the rocky fields farther up, close to the northern tip.

The next morning, another sheep has been killed.

You bury her next to the other, place a flower on her grave because while she was eventually going to be a meal, you have great respect for all life.  

You follow the trail with the same result.

When it happens a third time, you realize you need to change your tactic.

The day after you’ve moved your flock back from the eastern fields, you visit the rock field. You bring back massive stones, each pushed and rolled with your weathered hands and aching shoulders.

You build a small shrine, two twin piles of stones with a slab laid over it.

You don’t know who you are praying to, but you share you dinner with a god and kindly request they protect your dear flock.

The next day, when you check your sheep, they are all there.

The alter is untouched, but the meat you left is gone.

You have never been a religious man, but you are also not a fool.

You begin leaving an offering every night, speaking softly to whomever may be helping you. You tell them about your sheep, how you greatly enjoy their presence and the gifts their bodies give you when you must eventually kill one. You thank them, gratitude pouring from your lips as you leave your offering.

Your sheep thrive, the offerings are taken, and you find your vegetable garden overflowing with crops.

You begin to wonder.

You wonder if a benevolent spirit is protecting you, or a kind stranger who lives a similarly isolated lifestyle.

You leave your offering and your thanks, and then watch from a window in your cottage.

The moon rises, sleek and silver in the inky dark sky.

Your sheep huddle together and sleep, peaceful as the light paints their wool silver.

You sit and watch until your eyelids droop and your body folds under its weight.

It’s only when the fog rolls in, silent and suffocating, do you jerk awake.

A figure is standing by your shrine, massive and bulky in a very inhuman way. You watch, breath held as it lowers its head and eats. It’s too far to see, but you can barely make out four legs and a large body.

You get up, almost in a trance, and quietly exit your home.

It’s still eating, snuffling and snorting as it cleans the rock of your offering.

You get within ten yards before it notices you, and when its head snaps up you gasp.

It’s a horse, but unlike any horse you’ve ever seen.

Unlike your sweet old mare, this horse radiates strength and power. Its sleek black flank is tense, corded muscle running under its skin to its thick neck. The tail and mane are long, tangled and full of leaves and branches.

It regards you with large, burning orange eyes.

You step closer, and suddenly it wheels around, hooves stamping into the earth as it thunders off.

“Wait!” you shout, voice cracked and raw from disuse.

But the horse spirit is gone, and you curse your own foolishness.

The next day you walk your flock to the eastern side and ponder what you saw. You’re tired, and you cling to your staff as you watch your sheep graze.

That horse had been almost twice the size of your mare, your own head barely reaching its jaw. But do horses eat meat? You’ve never seen that before. You’ve also never seen a horse with burning orange eyes.

You’re not a religious man, but you are one who believes in the power of hope.

That night you sit at the shrine and leave a generous helping.

“I hope you come again, spirit,” you say in your soft, gruff voice. Your sore hands run over the smooth, cold stones.

“I appreciate everything you have done for me. That was you, wasn’t it? Protecting my flock. Blessing my garden.”

Your back complains about sitting on the hard earth, but you persist.

“I would like to repay you somehow, spirit. Your mane was tangled, full of debris from the forest. If you’d like, I could brush it for you. Clear the leaves and burrs from your coat. It’s the least I could do.”

You wait until the moon is high before going inside.

You sleep fitfully through the night, terrified that the horse spirit will never return.

But in the morning, when you hurry out to check the alter, you find your worries were unfounded.

The meat is gone, and you smile.

You repeat your offer every night for a week, leaving your gift on the stone as always.

One night, as you are sitting and speaking gently to the stones, you feel the wind stir.

You look up and almost miss him at first. His dark coat blends him seamlessly into the shadows of the trees near your home, but his eyes give him away.

You smile but make no move to approach.

He comes to you, slowly, haltingly, like he’s second-guessing every step.

His hooves are bigger than your hands, and you watch quietly as he eats your offering and shakes his head in satisfaction.

When he doesn’t leave instantly, your breath catches. Your hand moves to the pocket of your jacket, slowly drawing out the comb you have been keeping with you since that first night.

The spirit cocks his head and observes you with one large orange eye.

You let him decide, keeping your posture relaxed and nonthreatening like when you try and get close to one of your sheep when they’re injured.

After a few minutes, the horse spirit comes to a decision.

He folds his great legs under his body and sinks to the ground, the bulk of his weight settling against the stones.

You shift over to his side, making sure to stay in his line of sight.

Orange eyes track you, interested and looking just as anticipatory as you feel.

Carefully, cautiously, you reach your hand out and touch the base of his neck.

The skin twitches, shivers, and then settles.

You start at the end, gathering a few locks of his mane in your hands and working out the knots. You work slowly and meticulously, coaxing knots apart and plucking burrs from his hair. You work a lock of hair until it shines in the moonlight, then gently place it over his neck and gather up the next bit.

He lets you work your way up to his head, ears flicking as your hands tend to him.

You are immersed in your work, hardly aware of time passing. You can hear him breathing, deep slow breaths that huff out against your thigh. His flanks expand gently with every breath, and you think he’s beautiful.

You say as much, as you work out the last of the knots. His ears twitch and angle towards you, perked with interest. You tell him a bit about yourself, how you left your massive family of twelve for a humble, isolated life in the mountains. You tell him about your sheep, and how you take great pride in your work.

When the last lock of hair is done, your fingers comb through it, unwilling to part. When the spirit also makes no attempt to leave, you begin to braid.

You weave his mane together, talking quietly about what the other villagers think about you and how it used to affect you. You tell him about your garden, how you love being so independent, and how you make most of your things from the resources around you.

You tell him you are going to make a new cloak for the winter, since your old one is in tatters. You tell him this as you pluck flowers and weave them into his mane.

By the time you are done the sky has turned a blurry grey-blue, signaling a not far off sunrise.

It’s only then does the horse spirit lift his large head, turning to face you.

You watch him, tired and pleasantly satisfied.

You will later equate your lack of reaction to not sleeping, because when the spirit begins to shift in his skin you don’t register it. But the darkness of his coat is moving, flowing, shrinking. The body morphs and changes in a dizzying series of contortions until a naked man is lying on the ground with his head in your lap.

You stare down into warm orange eyes, angled in the corners and watching you with shocking intensity.

His skin is dark, not nearly as dark as his horse form though. He looks like the wet earth, and his hair is braided up in a tight crown around his head. Your wildflowers are sprinkled throughout it, and it takes you an inordinate amount of time to realize he’s waiting for you to say something.

“Oh,” is what you manage to whisper.

It’s not terribly articulate, but it earns you a smile from the beautiful spirit in your lap.

He sits up and you note his body is muscular like his horse form.

Then he leans in, watching for a reaction. When you give none, he closes the gap and kisses you chastely on the lips.

“Thank you.”

His voice is low and masculine, and you stare at him with wide eyes and warm cheeks as he pulls away.

Your body feels like it’s been filled with sunshine and energy, but you barely register it as he stands and walks off into the woods. Your eyes follow him until the shadows swallow your spirit up, leaving you alone as the sun begins to peak over the horizon.

You watch the sun rise, color pouring out in rays and chasing off the clinging night. You realize that despite not sleeping you feel rejuvenated and full of warm, bright energy.

You get up, knees creaking in protest from holding your position for so long. You gather your staff and change your clothes, giving your face a good scrub before heading out for the day.

Your spring lambs have now grown into their adult fleeces, their mothers trailing wearily behind them as they play in the meadow. You stroke one that comes near you and feed it some grass seed from your palm.

You watch your flock and think about orange eyes and soft lips.

His hair had been the color of gold, soft as silk and shining like a coin. A beautiful contrast to his dark, unblemished skin.

Whatever doubts you had about it being a spirit are long gone.

You tend to your garden when you get back, still full of energy and warmth. Your sheep look on longingly as you gather up your vegetables in preparation for the first frost. Your sheep are fat and you are willing to bet most of them will make it through the winter this year.

You gather carrots, potatoes, cabbage, herbs of all sorts, and place them all in a massive wicker basket. You’ll get them ready to be stored tomorrow, and you hum merrily as you replant your garden and brush dirt from your hands.

You leave an offering, as always, and go inside to make yourself some dinner.

You plan to slaughter some of your older sheep within the month, that’ll give you enough hide for your cloak and plenty of meat for the winter.

As you finish with dinner, you turn around and notice a package on your bed. It’s wrapped in brown paper and tied with a vine, and it most definitely wasn’t there when you walked in.

You set your bowl down and move to your bed, hands running over the package curiously. You pluck the vine open and smooth out the paper, eyes wide as you pull out your gift.

It’s a cloak, a truly magnificent cloak.

It’s made of beaver skin, waterproof and soft. You run your fingers over it, stunned. Something like this was worn by people far away from you, people with coin and stone homes and servants. The cloak will keep you warm and dry until you are an old, old man.

You touch the collar, lined with what appears to be grey fox fur.

There’s a clasp to hold it together, simple but elegant.

You laugh softly as you trace the horsehead clasp, fingers lovingly running over the detail in the carving.

There is not a doubt in your mind who this is from, and it makes your chest tight and hot with affection.

You carefully wrap it back up and place it on a shelf over your bed, next to your spare blanket, ready to be used once the cold finally settles in.

\---

The first frost has struck, and you wake to find the world quiet and be-speckled with frozen dew drops. The grass crunches under your boots as you rouse the sheep, knowing the eastern mountain fields will be melted by the sun by the time you get there.

The trek gets a little harder every year, but you whistle encouragingly to your flock and try and set a good example.

You slip once, feet hitting an icy rock you didn’t see. Your hand flies out and finds a sturdy branch waiting, catching you before you can hit the hard ground.

You straighten yourself and give the tree an appreciative pat before continuing with a bit more caution.

A small part of you wonders what you’re going to do when you’re too old and achy to make this journey anymore.

Your sheep graze and migrate slowly back home, and you find yourself looking for any hint of orange eyes or black hair.

It’s been a few days since you’ve last seen your kind spirit.

You leave offerings as usual, and they vanish by morning, but he hasn’t visited since he kissed you.

You find yourself concerned, drawing your priceless cloak around you and wondering if spirits could get cold. You don’t peg him as a nature spirit, so you don’t think he would be affected by snow, but then again you don’t know much about spirits in general.

You leave an offering, check periodically for him, and find it gone by morning.

You take your sheep to eat the remaining grass untouched by the frost, and then take them home.

You leave an offering.

It’s gone in the morning.

You haven’t seen him in weeks.

Winter rolls in with a slow persistence, settling in for the long haul as snow blankets the mountain and your sheep huddle for warmth.

You’ve killed a few of them, a couple less than planned now that you don’t need their hides. The meat is salted and stored and you’re not worried about food.

Icicles hang from your roof, glinting like precious stones in the bright, winter sun.

You stomp out a path to your sheep, brush the snow off them and give them a few encouraging words.

You stomp over to the shrine and gently sweep off the snow that accumulates in the night. You leave smaller offerings, and you’ve lost a bit of weight from your rationing as happens every winter. But your muscles are still strong and you figure you have a few more good winters left in you yet.

He doesn’t come.

You wrap yourself in your cloak and get firewood from your stash under the trees, kept dry by the branches above.

You light a massive, roaring fire in your home and sit so close your cheeks and nose turn red and sting.

He doesn’t come.

You find a sheep dead the next morning, frozen over and away from the flock.

You can’t bury it in the snow, so you drag it away from your home, huffing and sweating, until you can deposit it somewhere were wolves can’t follow you home.

You make a stew in a massive clay pot, something your Grandma taught you when you were just a little lad.

You smile as you think of her soft, papery hands and bright, joyful voice.

You freeze the stew outside and it lasts you a week.

He doesn’t come.

The ice has settled in and the world is quiet as death.

You spend your time on projects that have accumulated throughout the year. You mend clothes by the fire you now keep burning constantly, humming to yourself as you pull the thread made from wool and try not to look out the window. You whittle new tools for your house, making a hook for your cloak and installing it by the door. You add a couple new carvings to your shepherd’s staff. You only realize once you’re finished that you’ve carved a horse, and you are quick to place your staff out of sight.

You take your sheep’s pelts and make them into a new pair of britches and a belt.

You are running out of things to do.

You lose another sheep. This one slipped on the ice and broke a leg. Thankfully you were there to put her out of her misery.

Fresh meat is a welcome change, and you stuff the intestines into sausages and hang your sheep skin over your bed to keep the cold out.

Time passes, and the first thaw comes late this year.

You stand outside, blinking in the sun as the snow slowly recedes and your sheep bleat happily.

You know your mountain well and keep the sheep near your home. Sure enough, another snow storm rolls in and covers the hopeful patches of green.

You build your fire back up and rub your chapped hands together, wincing at the stiffness.

Your wood supply is low, so with a heavy sigh you get up and grab your boots. The trek is short but cold, and you gather up as much wood as you can in your arms.

You trudge back and deposit it just inside your door, then turn to get another load.

You hear a soft thudding behind you, muffled by the snow but alien in the stillness of the winter. You turn in disbelief.

He’s there, not ten paces away, his horse form as imposing as ever. Steam is rising from his nostrils and his coat is dusted with snow.

You move swiftly towards him, previous hesitations forgotten as you rush through the snow and throw your arms around his neck.

He snorts, the warm air tickling the back of your neck, and you laugh into his mane.

“I thought you weren’t coming back,” you admit into his mane, which is once again tangled.

You feel the thick muscle in his neck move unnaturally, and that’s all the warning you get before he shifts. You pull back and watch this time, transfixed as bones mold into new shapes and muscles rearrange themselves. Hair retreats in leaving hide, which then smooths and softens into skin. The mane lightens into gold, shortening into hair, and then he’s in his human form.

“I didn’t know you wanted me back,” he says, and you realize that in his form you’re actually bigger than him.

He’s thinner than you, though by no means small. He retains his broad chest and shoulders from his other form, muscular legs and piercing eyes. But he’s a head shorter than you, and you feel a pang in your chest as you look at him.

“Time is different for me,” he adds, almost apologetically. “I didn’t realize that for someone like you, I was away for a long time.”

“You were,” you say, eyes flicking over his nude body. “Would you like to come in?”

He looks a little skittish at the offer, but you feel warm when he nods and follows you into your home.

You assume he must be freezing without his other form’s fur coat, so you build up the fire until it’s blazing.

You both sit on a rug by your fireplace and you bring him one of your blankets, which he wraps tightly around himself.

You can’t believe he’s here, that he’s back, and in your home nonetheless.

He seems intrigued by your dwelling, looking around with a curious expression.

His eyes settle on the cloak by the door and he smiles slightly.

You have no idea what to say now that he’s here, so you bring up the first thing that pops into your mind.

“Would you like me to brush your hair?”

He turns to look at you, orange eyes studying you with a silent intensity that makes you a little nervous that you said the wrong thing. But then he’s moving, twisting around and leaning back so his head is in your lap.

He gives you a tiny, almost cheeky smile, and it makes your face heat up and your heart stutter.

“Um, I’ll take that as a yes then!”

Thankfully the brush you use on yourself is within grabbing distance, so you do manage to grab it without upending the spirit currently resting in your lap.

He hums at the first brush stroke, eyes fluttering closed and relaxing as you begin to work out the knots. It’s a little harder than when he was in his horse form, but there is a lot less hair to work with. You pluck out small, dried leaves and tenderly ease out a burr.

He’s quiet, breathing softly as you brush. You almost want to talk, find out more about him, but the idea of ruining the perfect stillness of this moment is appalling.

So you listen to the wood crack and pop in the fireplace, feel the heat of the flames dance over the both of you, and enjoy how silky his hair is once it’s all detangled.

You set the brush aside and, after a brief moment of contemplation, run your fingers through his hair.

He melts further into you, and you smile as you stroke and pet him into a boneless heap. You’re not sure what sort of work being a spirit entails, but you can imagine it’s hard and that relaxing like this is hard to come by. You imagine it’s like shepherding, except with people and their wishes and some sort of abstract concept of faith.

It gives you a headache to think about so you push that thought away and focus on him.

He barely moves until the wee hours of the morning, then his eyes slowly open and warm pools of orange meet your gaze.

He slowly sits up, the blanket falling around his waist as he turns to look at you.

“Thank you,” he says, all quiet seriousness like before.

And like before, when he leans in he waits just a second in case you pull away.

Like before, you don’t.

He kisses you, his lips incredibly warm and soft.

Your hand moves up and cups his jaw, kissing him back firmly. You can feel him moving in closer to you, lips molding against your own and parting in a subtle invitation.

You press back, tongue slipping into his mouth and earning a small, encouraging noise from him. He lets you steer the kiss, almost pliant in your hands which you blame on the heat from the fire and previous hair-petting.

You think the heat from the fire might be addling your brain too, because you have never felt this elated and nervous in your entire life. Is kissing someone supposed to make you feel like you’re dying? You’ve kissed people before, had plenty of experience in your youth, but this is unlike anything you’ve ever felt. You’ve never had this sort of _connection_ with anybody before. And you’ve also never kissed a spirit, which you also suspect may have some of its own side effects.

Your spirit pulls away first, looking pleased.

You’re not sure how you look, but you’d wager your best ram that it’s not in the least put-together.

He gets up to go, and you blink and stand up to follow.

“Wait, um,” you say as he opens your door, and then flush when he looks at you. “Uh, that is, what can I call you?”

He cocks his head and smirks, like you just said something particularly amusing. “Names have power.”

You don’t really know what to do with that odd reply, but you’re certain yours doesn’t have any power whatsoever. “Well, mine is Jake.”

He looks at you for a second, like he’s warring between two thoughts.

“Dirk,” he finally says, so quiet you almost miss it.

Then he’s gone, and you are left with a burning feeling in your chest and the name of a spirit in your head.

He doesn’t visit again directly after that, but now you know not to worry so much about it. He’ll come when he wants too.

The snow on the ground thins and melts quickly, and soon the sun begins to feel warmer and the days stretch out minute by minute.

You bring your sheep to the eastern field for the first time in the new spring, watching happily as they eat to their hearts content.

You are tired from the winter, and the cold hasn’t left you yet, but you brush your fingers over the horse carved into your staff and feel a little better.

You leave a large offering that night to celebrate the coming of spring.

The spring lambs are born and you are thrilled with the newest members of your flock. They stumble around and call for their mothers, confident on their wobbly, stilt-like legs. You watch and laugh as they leap and tumble through the grass.

You replant your vegetable garden, pleased to find most of your crop’s roots survived the winter.  

The spring blooms into summer and you exchange your cloak for your new britches and a cool, breezy linin top. The lambs grow and your garden flourishes.

You find for the first time that your mountain life is far lonelier than ever before.

You find yourself missing orange eyes and the cocky quirk of too-soft lips. You miss thin, delicate blond hair that tangles too easily. You miss warm, dark skin that contrasts beautifully against your own tan coloring.

That night you wait by the alter, picking grass and twisting it apart in your fingers as the moon rises slowly above you. The summer air smells sweet and cool, lulling you into a sleepy comfort. You hope he comes, and you feel like he knows you’re waiting for him.

So when you hear the familiar beat of hooves, you smile and turn to greet him.

He’s morphed into human form when your eyes meet his, and you shake your head when you see his hair is as tangled as the first time you met.

You’re beginning to think he does it on purpose.

But you like this game, so you offer to brush it and he coyly suggests the floor of your home may be more comfortable than the dirt, so you both retreat indoors.

You brush his hair and talk this time, mostly about your life and the new lambs. You share some of their funny antics and feel a flash of happiness when he laughs at your stories.

He kisses you before he leaves, this one longer and with a bit more fervor. It happens in the doorway, arms wrapped tightly around each other and breaths shared as you lose yourself in his delightful little noises.

You murmur his name against his lips and he shivers all over, inhaling sharply. You feel lightheaded by the intensity of his reaction, even more so when he deepens the kiss with a demanding little groan.

After he leaves you spend the few hours before sunrise staring at the ceiling in a happy stupor.

He begins visiting more, until you are seeing him almost every night.

He begins telling you a bit about himself, and you listen in awe as he speaks of other forest spirits and the dynamics between them.

He tells you about the major gods, the main four, who sound rather intimidating to a humble shepherd like yourself.

He laughs when you tell him this.

“One of them is my older brother, how do you think I feel?”

Your vegetable garden is positively explosive this summer, and your spirit gives you a look of wide-eyed innocence when you comment on it with mock suspicion.

You get used to his presence, and though you tend to get overwhelmed by other people after a short period of time you have yet to feel like that with him.

You’ve gotten so used to peace that you’ve gotten a little lax. You realize this one day when you’re sitting in the eastern field and a wolf almost makes off with one your lambs. You give him a couple solid whacks with your herding staff before he scampers away, but your lamb is dead.

You don’t blame the wolf, its early summer and they were starving all throughout winter. You berate yourself for your lack of vigilance and hide the body before it attracts any other predators.

He brings you another gift that evening, and you look in alarm as he offers you the hilt of a sword.

“For protection,” he elaborates as you hold it awkwardly.

“Against wolves,” he continues when you don’t say anything, his voice pitching a little higher.

“You know. For your sheep. Because of what happened today.” His voice is speeding up, the way it does when he talks about his brother.

“I love it,” you say, and you do. It’s heavy, solid, a comforting weight in your hand. You don’t know how to wield a sword very efficiently, but you bet it would only take one whack to fend off a wolf which sounds nice.

You feel a bit silly with a sword hanging off your hip as you walk with your sheep, but you’re grateful nonetheless.

You also begin to notice that there is a bird watching you.

You brush it off for the first few days, but thanks to your wolf-run-in you have been more attuned to what goes on around you. So when the same black bird watches you from the lining of the trees for a week straight, you get suspicious.

You watch it out of the corner of your eye as you keep your sheep away from the trees. It doesn’t move like normal birds, or ruffle its feathers. In fact, it remains unnaturally still for hours. You actually do get nervous when you take a closer peek and see its eyes are beady red.

You casually bring it up to your spirit one night, fingers threading through his neatly brushed hair.

To your surprise, he pulls quite the expression and mutters a curse.

“Don’t worry about it,” he tells you when you press, but you’re a bit intrigued.

He leaves earlier than usual that evening, but he does give you a tight squeeze and a sweet kiss before going, which helps settle your nerves.

You don’t see the bird again, but you still feel like you’re being watched.

You start to think carrying a sword may be a good idea.

You also realize, embarrassingly late, that you have only been sleeping a couple hours a night but still feel extremely well rested.

When you ask about that, your spirit tries to distract you with searing kisses and wandering hands. You’d like to say it didn’t work, but that would be a bold-faced lie.

You find you really don’t care when he’s squirming and gasping under you.

You put it down to other-worldly things you don’t understand and move on.

“What form do you prefer?” you ask one night, your hand running along the curve of your spirit’s back.

He blinks, looking drowsy, though you know it’s an act. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering if this is comfortable for you. You seem to prefer your horse form.”

“Mmm, yes, but that form makes certain other activities a little more challenging.”

You blush a bit under the sly look he casts you under his eyelashes.

You tend to get up to some of those other activities afterwards, you just can’t seem to help yourself. He still refuses to wear clothes and seems to know _exactly_ what it does to you when he stretches out in your bed and smiles at you.

You’re just a man after all, and you also think it’s unwise to refuse a spirit anything. Not that you’re complaining.

The summer passes in a blur of sticky heat and whispers beneath the covers at night. It’s only when the leaves begin to turn that your spirit seems to be getting restless.

He begins to come the second the sun sets and stays until the sun threatens the sky with its warm glow. He keeps near you, watching, and you feel like you have eyes on you at all times. You grow you beard out and laugh when your spirit makes a disgruntled noise when you kiss him.

You don’t find out what’s been making him so jumpy until one night when you stand too quickly and your back cracks audibly.

You huff and laugh, then make a joke about being an old man.

Your spirit doesn’t laugh, and instead runs his hands over your chest and makes you an offer.

He says it so quietly you don’t hear it and first, and when you ask him to repeat it your eyebrows shoot up.

“Immortal?”

He isn’t meeting your eyes, and his hands flutter nervously along your collar. “I could, it would be easy.”

“I don’t want to be immortal,” you say, still surprised.

His brow draws tight with a look you’ve begun to associate with exasperation towards human antics.

“Your lifespan is so short, Jake,” his voice pitches as hands smooth out invisible wrinkles. “You’re already struggling with things that used to be simple.”

“Excuse you, I am not _that old_ , I have quite a few years left! And my work is hard, though I know for a spirit it must seem trivial.”

“No, that’s not what I meant—”

“Then what did you mean? Because it sounds like you think I’m going to drop dead by next spring.”

He winces at that, actually winces, and you instantly regret your words.

“Time is different for me,” he says after a pause, “and to me, your lifespan is a blink of an eye. I don’t…” he struggles and frowns, looking so unhappy that you pull him into a hug without thinking.

He sighs and buries his head in the crook of your neck, lips dangerously close to your pulse as you rub his back and make soothing noises.

“I’m not going anywhere yet. This is a conversation for a later date.” Your words are muffled in his feather soft hair, but he seems to get the gist.

“But we will have this conversation?”

You don’t have the heart to say no when he asks in such a hopeful tone. “Of course, love.”

He clings to you all night, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he so much as glances away. You do your best to comfort him, though you don’t think it does much to alleviate his fears.

“Why don’t you visit during the day?” you ask as sunrise approaches and he begins to get tense.

“Can’t. It’s complicated.” He sounds bitter, so you don’t push it.

He grips the back of your shirt when you kiss him goodbye, and you watch as he morphs and trots off into the woods. You see a flutter of wings in the corner of you eye, but when you look there’s nothing.

The topic doesn’t come up again for a while.

Your spirit sticks around this winter, appearing at your doorstep shivering and cursing the cold as you usher him inside and wrap a waiting blanket around him.

“Why don’t you wear clothes if you’re so cold?”

He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind, though the effect is ruined considering he’s bundled up in two blankets and shivering by your fireplace.

Winter passes with only one lost sheep and you make your Grandma’s stew for your spirit. When you tell him about its significance to you he gives you this soft, fond look that makes you melt.

He holds you tight that night, whispering praise and kindness as you shake apart in his arms, pleasure whiting out your mind and liquefying your bones.

Spring comes and the world is born again in vibrant color.

It’s the first spring you find yourself with a visitor.

You have just brought your sheep back when you notice a figure sitting by your stone alter, studying it intently. For a split second your heart leaps, thinking it’s your spirit, but on closer inspection you see the form is wrong.

And she’s wearing clothes too, which is a dead giveaway.

You walk over, concerned. People don’t come up here usually, especially young ladies.

“Ma’am, are you alright? Can I help you?”

She turns and you are pinned by bright, electric pink eyes.

“I don’t know, are you Jake?” Her voice is light and carries on the wind, almost like music.

Your fingers rub the horse carving on your staff. Something is off about this woman, but you are a gentleman first and foremost, no matter how long you’ve been isolated from society.

“I am he. May I ask who you are?”

She throws her head back and laughs, blonde hair bouncing around her chin. “Names have power, hon! But you can call me Lalonde.”

That settles it for you, but nothing about her trips your warning sensors so you assume it’s okay. “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Lalonde.”

She walks over to you, eyes shining as she extends her hand for a greeting.

You accept it, and are happily surprised by how firm her grip is.

“Pleasure’s all mine, Jakey. Now, how about we have a nice little chat?”

“Oh! Um, of course. Would you like to come in or…?”

“Oh that won’t be necessary, I can’t stay for long. I just wanted to know what your intentions are towards my friend?” Her voice has gone from light and breezy to sharper than the blade on your hip.

You, however, are too shocked by her words to recognize the threat. “You know Dirk?”

Her eyes widen and she lets out a startled noise. “Oh my lords he told you his _name_? Bro is going to lose his shit. Well, Jakey, you got some precious information there. Got anything to prove you’re to be trusted with it?”

You’re not sure what’s happening, but you get the distinct impression your honor is in question here. You puff up, incredulous. “Madam, I don’t plan to do anything with such sensitive information! I don’t quite like these accusations you seem to be tossing at me. D—uh, our mutual friend, is very dear to me. I would never do anything to put him in jeopardy!”

“Hmm, yeah, and you don’t have much contact with anybody do you? I’ve been keepin’ an eye on you, boy, but I like what I’ve seen.” She gives you a wink and you think you’re getting whiplash from all these tone changes.

“Watching? You weren’t by chance that horrid bird, were you?”

Her eyes crinkle and her smile takes on a knowing look. “Oh no, that wasn’t me. But if this keeps up like how our _mutual friend_ wants it to, then you’ll be meeting him eventually.”

“Him?”

You get another wink, this one even more exaggerated.

“Well I have to go, but I hope I’ll see more of you sometime in the future, Jakey.”

“Um, yes, likewise. Very nice to meet you, Ms. Lalonde.” You are frankly baffled by everything that happened, but when she walks away without so much as disturbing a stalk of grass you find yourself wearily accepting it.

You don’t mention it to your spirit that night, feeling that your conversation with Lalonde was intended for your knowledge only.

He seems to know you have something on your mind, but he doesn’t push it and you’re eternally grateful.

Time passes and the seasons change. Your flock has grown considerably and your vegetable garden is almost too large for you and your divided time. But you have more food than you know what to do with, so you start making offerings to both your spirit and his friend.

You think you made a good decision because when you return to your home after herding one day you find that flowering vines have curled their way along your roof. You gently touch one of the little bell shaped flowers, smiling when its soft fragrance hits your nose.

Your spirit seems to like the flowers even more than you do, and is practically glowing when he arrives and sees them curled along your home.

You tease him for it and weave a couple into his hair, which he only complains about halfheartedly.

He asks, tentatively, if you want to have that conversation.

You say no, not yet.

He falls silent, and then asks when you will want to.

You tell him next summer.

He nods and seems content for the time being.

You are getting older, not yet what you’d call an old man, but definitely a couple summers away from having to seriously consider your future life plans. The trek to the other side of the mountain is getting harder with every season change, and you found grey in your beard this morning.

Your hair is thick and strong as ever, but after some serious investigating you realize that it’s gone from steady black to salt and pepper without you ever noticing.

So when next summer comes and your spirit makes a couple inquisitive noises, you relent.

“I don’t want to live forever,” you admit to the blankets on your bed, unable to meet his eyes. “It seems so lonely and I’m just a shepherd. I live a good life, an honest one. It’s not fancy like yours, or impactful. But it’s mine, and I love it for what it is.”

“You can still live like that,” he says, voice strained as he tries to hide his desperation. “You won’t have responsibilities or be tied to anything. You can be whatever you want. You can travel, see the world.”

You shake your head. “I enjoy my life, I like being tied to this mountain and my home.”

“Then stay, be the guardian of this place. Protect it and cherish it and make sure nothing bad happens.”

You give him a woeful look. “I get the feeling you’re going to be stuck here too. I don’t want to make that decision for you.”

He makes a frustrated noise and reaches out, gripping your hands in his. You look at the contrast and feel an odd pang of unhappiness in your chest. His hands are young, smooth and flawless. Yours are calloused, starting to winkle from time. Seeing them together feels like you have miles between you, though you know logically your spirit is probably decades older than you.

“I want to be where you are,” he says, voice cracking.

You finally meet his eyes. “Like you said before, time passes differently for you. You’ll move on, don’t worry.”

He makes a noise like you just drove a knife into him. He lets go of your hands and wraps his arms around himself.

“ _That’s not what I want._ ”

“I’m sorry,” you say softly.

“Don’t say sorry. Stay with me, please. I can’t…I can’t lose you. It can be us, like this, forever.”

You don’t answer. You can’t be so selfish to tie him to you and this mountain forever.

He seems to know what you’re thinking because he’s shaking his head.

“Jake, I will spend eternity on this mountain if you die. I’ll stay here forever if you stay. The only difference is that I’m a fucking selfish bastard and I want to spend eternity with you. I want to wander the mountain with you, keep it safe. But I don’t want to do it alone. I’ve been here for years, but I’ve never been so happy before this.”

You wrap your arms around him and drag him close, letting him fold up into your embrace as you bury your face in his hair.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I’m nervous about that whole thing.”

“What do you want to know? I’ll tell you everything.”

You can hear the undertone of hope in his words and it prompts you to keep talking.

“I just…don’t know anything about spirits. Except they like my Grandma’s stew and having their hair brushed.”

He laughs and you feel the knots in your stomach loosening.

“There’s not much else. If someone prays to you or sacrifices something to you it’s like a shot of energy, but you don’t need it. You can bless things to help people, or just watch over them if you are that sort of spirit. Or do nothing. It’s really whatever you want.”

“Do I have to turn into a horse?”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

You fall silent and mull it over. You know he wants an answer, but you don’t really have one.

“What about your family? Will you get in trouble?”

He makes an angry noise in the back of his throat that sounds so equine it makes you laugh. “No, they won’t say shit. I’ll make sure of it.”

You chuckle and kiss the top of his head. “Okay.”

“Okay?” He twists around in your arms, eyes searching your face with disbelief.

You swallow and nod. “Okay.”

“I—oh lords, _Jake_ ,” he gives you no warning before he’s kissing you, hot and intense and dizzying. The force of his movement pushes you onto your back, and you grunt in surprise.

He follows you down, mouth insistent and hungry against yours.

You moan into it and hold him tightly against you, hands wandering over his smooth, muscular back. He makes the most incredible noises when you tease and caress, pushing into your touch demandingly.

You roll him over, trapping him beneath your body. He looks up at you, eyes wide and hair tousled. You will never get over seeing him like this, sprawled under you and open to your touch. You don’t waste a second giving it to him, because you can’t refuse your spirit anything.

His sweet, gasping moans are more than enough reward on their own. Your mouth finds that sweet spot on his neck and he whines, arching up into you and clinging to your shoulders as you kiss and suck it.

“Ah, fuck, Jake,” his voice is so expressive when you’re like this, pitching and stuttering in response to everything you do to him. He’s a beautiful mess as you work him over, every inch of his body memorized as you press into spots that make him press into you and moan.

You sit up and quickly shed your shirt, earning a noise of approval before he’s dragging you back down on top of him.

Nails drag down your back as he kisses you messily, pushing his tongue into your mouth and drawing out little noises of your own.

You pin him with your body, groaning when he hitches a leg over your hip and grinds up into you.

You remember the first time he whispered your name like a prayer, voice soft and choked as you worshiped his body. Seeing him looking at you like that still makes your heart grow until it’s too tight in your chest, and you wish you could pry it out and hand it to him.

He’s panting your name as you taste your way down his body, holding his hips to the bed as he tries to jerk into your mouth. You feel his fingers in your hair, petting and encouraging as his voice rises higher.

Then he pushes you off and rolls you both over, lips demanding on yours as his hands move over your body with a single minded determination.

It’s your turn to become putty in his hands as he purrs words that are too filthy for such a sweet tone. They make you shake and gasp as he makes promises meant for an eternity.

“Jake,” he moans when your hands join his in their exploration. “Jake, ah, wait a second—mnh!”

With great effort you manage to move your hands from between his legs to rest on his hips, rubbing restlessly as he pants into your neck. “What’s wrong, love?”

“No, nothing wrong, believe me.” His voice is breathless and he presses a kiss to your throat. “I wanted to ask if you wanted to, um, do it now?”

You snort. “Isn’t that what we were trying to do before you stopped it?”

He laughs, a little huff. “No, the other thing.”

“Oh.” You blink, startled.

“We don’t have to now—” he’s quick to reassure, but you shush him.

“Now is fine, no time like the present.” You try and calm the fluttering in your heart when he gives you a meltingly tender smile. “How, um, how will it work?”

“That’s all on me, you just keep doing what you’re doing.” Your spirit has resumed kiss you, teeth nibbling on your neck.

So you do, touching and kissing until you’re both back into your dance. Nothing feels different, so you place your trust in that he knows what he’s doing and let go.

You turn your mind onto him, his body and how he sounds when you drag his hips down against yours. He’s kissing you, open mouthed and needy as you pant in his mouth.

Warmth is coiling through you, running through your veins and reinvigorating you. You use it to sit up and pull your spirit into your lap, biting and sucking his neck as he locks his legs around you and grinds.

His nails rake down your back as you force your hand between the two of you.

“ _Oh, Jake—!”_

“Dirk,” you moan back, and he falls apart in your arms like he always does when you call out his name.

The sight of him, lips wet and open as he calls your name makes you follow close behind, tense and groaning.

You feel incredible, and you murmur to him and stroke his hair and back as you both ride out the waves of pleasure.

He lifts his head and gives you a sleepy, satisfied smile that you mirror with your own grin.

“I thought you were going to make me immortal,” you tease, kissing his forehead.

“I did,” he mumbles, voice slurring a bit. “And now ‘m exhausted. Got any more of that stew?”

You blink. “You did? When?”

“Stew first,” he says, and you relent.

To your surprise, when you get up nothing hurts. There’s no telltale ache in your back from your previous activities, or snapping in your joints from the odd angles.

You frown and scratch your chin, then make a noise when you meet smooth skin.

“What—?”

He raises an eyebrow and you hesitate before going to get some of the leftovers.

He accepts the bowl of heated stew with a pleased hum. “You should check your mirror, you look amazing.”

You leave him there and walk outside to where you hung a piece of glass for shaving.

“ _Sweet jumping horsefeathers!”_

The face in your glass stares back with wide-eyed shock.

You raise a hand and touch your cheek, and the person in your mirror does the same.

He looks like you did when you were a young man. Your beard is gone and your face is free of winkles. Your cheeks are round and healthy looking, and your hair as returned to its thick, midnight black.

Your eyes are electric green.

You look down at your hands, smooth and unblemished.

You stumble back into your house. “Dirk, what in the world—?”

He gets up and walks over, catching your shaking hands in his own. “Hey, shh, it’s okay. It’s a little jarring at first. How do you feel?”

“I, uh, I don’t know?” You try and asses yourself under your shock and nerves. You feel…good? Actually kind of great. The bone-deep tired you weren’t aware you were carrying is gone, and the ache in your muscles has been replaced with what you suspect is limitless energy.

He squeezes your hands. “You can alter your appearance, you can look however you want. Try it, just picture what you want.”

You frown and look down at your hands twined with your spirits’.

You don’t like how they look. It looks like you’ve never done a day’s hard work in your life. You think about your callouses and scars, how your hands were always rough and worn and how you were _proud of that._

Your spirit sucks in a breath and you blink, looking down at _your_ hands suddenly.

“Oh thanks the gods,” you breathe, and he laughs.

“You look like you did the day I met you,” he says, voice almost dreamy.

You venture outside for another look, a bit cautious.

You no longer look like a child, which makes the knot in your chest loosen. You have your stubble, creases around your eyes and a smattering of grey in your hair. You rub your hands together and nod, pleased.

“You can’t go around telling people your name,” your spirit says from behind you, and you turn to give him a smile.

“Dirk,” you reply, and he gets that look in his eye that makes your skin tingle.

“There are people you should meet,” he says, “things to sort out.”

“Later,” you say, turning back to the mirror.

“Later,” he agrees.

When he leaves that morning, you go with him. You meet a lady with shocking pink eyes and laugh at Dirk’s stunned expression when she hugs you like an old friend. You sheepishly mumble an explanation while she crows congratulations and waggles her eyebrows in a very un-ladylike manner.

You meet another lady with eyes like the spring sky and she, though hesitant, is welcoming.

You go home, and then after a couple days Lalonde— _“You can call me Roxy!”_ —comes by and drags you out.

You find you can travel very fast now, and it barely takes you a minute to get from the bottom of your mountain to the top.

It’s disorienting at first, but you figure it out eventually.

They start to teach you things, like how to get a hold on changing your appearance or vanishing altogether.

The first time Roxy does it you yelp and leap up like someone shocked you.

She reappeared, laughing, and tried to teach you.

It didn’t work well, and you found Dirk’s other friend to be a bit more patient with you.

“Jane,” she says one day, holding her hand out.

“Jake,” you reply, and Dirk beams when you shake her hand.

You don’t realize that you visits are getting less and less frequent until you come home done day and realize all your sheep are gone.

You find them scattered over the mountain, grazing lazily and content.

You leave them be.

Soon there are wild sheep flourishing on your mountain, and your vegetable garden is trying it’s best to reclaim the plot of land your home resides on.

Time becomes an odd concept.

Dirk holds you hand as you watch your house slowly erode and become nothing more than a few foundational logs buried in grass and flowers.

He tells you you can bless the spot, and you do.

Pumpkin begin to grow there in numerous amounts, and people from the village below the mountain make the trek to collect some for food.

Dirk hates it, but you love that your pumpkins help people you’ve never met.

You watch and guard, remembering every face that comes to collect your pumpkins.

Dirk takes you to meet someone special, and you meet the crow who watched you so many years ago.

His human form is cloudy, like he can’t quite get a grip on how people should look.

His eyes are red, but his features so closely resemble Dirk’s that you know exactly who it is. You bow you head and introduce yourself as Dirk’s partner.

“He’s forgetting how to shift back,” Dirk tells you one evening in his horse form. You can understand him like this, though his voice sounds odd.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s a God. He represents something bigger than all of this. He’s becoming abstract the longer he keeps his God form. One of his friends can’t shift back anymore. He’s the Wind.”

“The _wind?_ ”

Dirk shakes out his mane and huffs. “Yes. His other two friends think he doesn’t have much longer.”

You don’t have anything to say to that, so you braid his mane and sit until the sun rises.

One day as you all are talking, you get a shot of energy so intense it makes you sit bolt upright.

_“_ What was _that?_ ”

“What was what?” Roxy asks.

You explain, and they all light up.

“Your first prayer!” Jane claps, and you feel lightheaded.

“But, why? Who?”

Dirk gets up and shifts effortlessly into his horse form. “Lets see.”

Roxy crows and jumps into her other form, a speckled wild cat now perched on Dirk’s back.

You and Jane keep with the forms you are in and follow them to the source.

You find a tiny pile of stones where your house once stood so long ago, now the center of a pumpkin patch.

“Touch it, and focus on what you feel,” Jane instructs, and you do as she says.

Your fingertips brush the stones and you are stunned to feel a waves of gratitude and hopefulness.

You yank your hand away like you were burned. “Wow.”

“What was it?” Dirk asks.

“Um, hope, I think? For something. Maybe for a continued good pumpkin harvest.”

Roxy shifts back and giggles, swinging her legs from Dirk’s flank. “Pumpkins? That’s incredible. My first prayer was for returning something lost. Or taken. Never was too sure on it.”

“Mine was health,” Jane says.

You turn to Dirk, curious. “What was yours?”

“Protection.”

You all leave the stones as they are, though you feel the smallest tug from them as you move away.

Dirk convinces you to take a trip into the village beneath the mountain, and you reluctantly agree. He tells you there’s no need for disguises, it’s been years since the last person who knew your face died.

The village has changed, grown and evolved in ways that makes you uncomfortable. You never liked the hustle and bustle down here, and Dirk seems to read your discomfort and keeps close.

You spot a stall selling familiar pumpkins and walk over, Dirk trailing behind you.

“Ah, hello sirs, how can I help you? Interested in a pumpkin?” The seller is a friendly woman, and you recognize her as one who makes the treacherous climb in the autumn to harvest some of your crops.

“I am. Where did you get these?”

Her eyes widen. “You don’t know? My, you must not be from around here.”

You shake your head and make a vague gesture.

“These are The Shepherd’s pumpkins,” she says, her voice lowered.

Dirk perks up and moves closer. “Who is that?”

She shakes her head and smiles. “Just a story my grandma told me, of a lonely shepherd who lived in the mountains. Apparently he went up there one day and was never seen again. There are a lot of theories about what happened to him. Some say he was killed by the wolves, or just died a natural death. A few think the ancient spirits got him.”

“What do you think?” You try and keep your face expressionless.

“Well, I don’t really know. But I’ll tell you something; these pumpkins grow where my grandma’s stories said he lived. They’re bigger than most, and always plentiful no matter how deep the frost gets. Two winters ago a winter came and destroyed just about all the spring crops, but come fall these pumpkins were growing just as well as always.”

Dirk makes a surprised noise and she nods at him.

“Magic, or something of the sort. My husband doesn’t like me going up there to pick them, but it’s _good magic_ , I can feel it.”

“Here,” she says, picking up a pumpkin and holding it out to you. “For you.”

“I don’t have any coin on me,” you say, and then blink as it’s pushed into your hands.

“No payment needed. Please enjoy.” She smiles at you and gestures to the pumpkin in your hands. “It’s good luck.”

You carry it with you back up your mountain, running your hands over it thoughtfully.

Dirk is amused by what the woman said, and keeps making teasing remarks about how they’d react if they knew what really happened.

“Carried off by a spirit, indeed,” he chuckles, and you give him a grin.

The next time the woman comes to collect pumpkins, you bless her.

You’ve never done it before, but you recall what Dirk told you about it and try your best.

You think she saw you, because she startles and squints at the woods where you are hidden. But you turned invisible, so after a bit she goes back to collecting.

More shrines begin to pop up after that, and surprisingly a few begin to appear for both you and Dirk.

You’re not sure what that signifies, but Dirk gets flustered and embarrassed whenever he sees them. Roxy just giggles and nudges him repeatedly until he threatens to turn into his horse form and kick her off the mountain.

Time passes and things change, people visit your mountain less and less and the village below grows into a city.

Jane seems concerned, but Dirk assures you that no matter what happens, you will all stay together.

You’re not a religious man, but you have faith in that.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope ya'll enjoyed this! It was fun to write.  
> I'd love comments from ya'll, they make my day :)


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